


Catharsis

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Suicide, Episode: s04e02 The Fear Reaper, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: Oswald would like to think he can keep it together. As mayor, he has buisness to atted to, the GCPD will take care of the scarecrow.Only it’s been too long now, he’s been waiting for over three hours for any news from his useless police force only to find out that Jim still hasn’t come back from the asylum.Screw it,Oswald thinks, eventually.Screw Jim,He’ll just have to rescue the stupid arse himself.He’s just not entierly prepared for what he finds inside.





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Catharsis: the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.
> 
> **
> 
> TW: as per the episode tag, this fic will likely include self-harm and attempted suicide, please proceed with caution.

Oswald is in a terrible mood: anxious, tired, hungry and very much fed up with the lunatic scarecrow wreaking havoc all throughout Gotham over the past week. As mayor, he is the one responsible of making sure the troublesome teenager is tracked down and dealt with accordingly, to ease his fair citizens’ worry and keep them safe. And, he must confess, he is doing a _dreadful_ job at it for far. Not only has the psycho kid managed to get the better of him, intoxicating him once already in front of the entire press –and humiliating him on a scale he is less than comfortable with in the process- but, and this is quite probably the worst of it, Oswald thinks, the brat has managed to get away with it –he’d scampered off into the blue, remaining ever elusive since, leaving Oswald behind as he desperately clung to the lapels of Jim Gordon’s suit jacket. The cliché has since become a humiliating headline on every major press outlet in the city, mortifying him at every turn, and despite the resources he has benevolently allocated to them, the incompetent GCPD have only _now_ managed to track the Scarecrow down.

In essence, the timing could not be worse.

Oswald’s scheduled press conference has turned out to be nothing short of a massive flop, not a single journalist having the decency of turning up to the _Iceberg Lounge_ despite having prepared them all exquisite drinks and vested time and effort into looking presentable. Even more embarrassing, none of them have previously given him any notice of their absence, meaning Oswald is left to discover an empty room all by his lonesome and only learn of their last-minute change of plans via a phone call from Butch. _How damn disgraceful. And he is the _mayor, _of all things!_

Indeed, it is as Mister Penn drives him up to Arkham Asylum ten minutes later (having remained stoically deaf to Oswald’s outraged outburst on the road –he sometimes thinks Cobblepot owes him compensation for heaping much of his emotional turmoil on his shoulders) that Oswald takes note of the frantic pack of animalistic-like reporters at the gates, like excited dogs begging for even a scrap of a good headline, even if it means degrading themselves in the process. He probably would have been here earlier had he known in advance that these second-rate columnists would have turned down his generous conference-invitation –what a waste of time and preparation that had been. It is very likely said rancour against them that has Oswald feeling no qualms whatsoever when he awkwardly elbows his way forward with his free arm, painstakingly trying to breathe in the suffocating and sweaty mass as he makes his way to the taped off area. Perhaps he even shoves one lady aside a little too harshly, given the outraged high-pitched cry she yelps, but Oswald has little care for her indignation -he is the mayor of Gotham, they owe him a little _respect!- _and squanders no time calling for the first available police officer he can set his eyes on to fill him in on the madness of the hour.

“Hey! You, over there –yes you with the curly hair-“ He beckons the officer over as he says (perhaps _shouts _is a slightly more accurate way of putting it) so, rather crudely, but etiquette and manners are not exactly at the top of his priorities right now. First and foremost, Oswald needs to regain some semblance of control here, show the GCPD and the pack of reporters behind him that _he_ is the mayor here, and that he can respond to whatever threat may arise accordingly. He is also tired, cold and hungry, in such circumstances, he guesses that his foul mood is more than understandable and that it will therefore come as a surprise to nobody when he will tell them that he wishes this operation to be quick and successful.

The officer, at the very least, has the decency of acquiescing to his request, even though she –Parks, he thinks he can read on the shiny tag on her chest- looks like she would rather be anywhere else. Oswald seizes hold of her, desperate for some answers, and is determined to not let her go until he is satisfied, and, hand firmly wrapped around her bicep (he’ll apologize later, he thinks, when all of this has died down), he continues, “What the _hell_ is going on?!” His throat is still a little sore from voicing his terror in the face of Crane’s toxin not that long ago –Lee has said it might take a few days to heal, and damn it isn’t that just great? How on earth is he supposed to get people to respect him if he cannot even talk to them correctly? He probably sounds like a screeching bird, if he is to judge by the looks the bystanders give him as he tries to drown out their incessant cacophony.

“I’m not entirely sure, Harvey Bullock has ordered us to contain the crowd, prevent any potential injuries and stop anyone who might be dumb enough to try and enter the asylum –his words not mine.” She says, apologizing profusely when she bumps into him, courtesy of another unruly reporter. Oswald lets the offender know how little he thinks of his behaviour with a simple but glacial snap, which at the very least seems to deflate him somewhat. “I think I heard him on the walkie-talkie with Gordon a while ago-“ She does not get to say anything further before the beasts latch onto her arm, turning her away from him and bombarding her with questions. Oswald thinks he should probably try to help her, but the thought lasts for all of two seconds before what she says sinks in: Bullock had been communicating with James.

Which very likely means that the idiot has gone in there, probably a decision made in the heat of the moment, not thought through and very likely not making any contingencies for _how_ exactly to apprehend the runaway Scarecrow. It is certainly a decision Oswald thinks he should have had some say in, what with him being mayor and having challenged the GCPD to find Crane, shouldn’t he be involved in the procedures?

There are times when Oswald really hates Jim, especially when he does _stupid_ things like this. Jim may be an idiot, but he is _his_ _idiot_. He knows that he’s previously expressed his scepticism of the police right in front of Jim and the press, back when they’d shaken hands after Jim took up his dare, but this is ridiculous, there is no need to be this reckless. What on earth is he thinking, taking a bunch of ineffective officers and going after a psycho-kid before thinking through how exactly to go about doing so?

He’s a stupid arse, and as he firmly thinks as much, he tries to quell the little alarm bell he can hear faintly ringing in the distance. He doesn’t care, he absolutely doesn’t. If Jim wants to be stupid, Oswald thinks he ought to let him, it might even knock the officer down a much welcomed peg or two. Instead, he takes a deep breath, straightens his coat –he has an appearance to keep up after all- and takes an as-confident-as-possible step forward, the ever-loyal Mister Penn by his side. He still can’t make out anybody remotely familiar though, and it very quickly becomes a big inconvenience: how is he supposed to appease his citizens if he can’t coordinate anything with anyone?

After what must be the most excruciating three-minutes in his life, he finally manages to spot Bullock –he is, after all, rather hard to miss with his fedora, unkempt hair and scraggly beard. He is not exactly Oswald’s favourite person, and far be it for him to seek the other man’s company under normal circumstances, but Jim has pleaded with him to try and show himself to be a little less hostile in the other man’s presence. He really would rather not, but finds it hard to refuse him, especially when, in turn, Jim has told him he is trying to get the other cop to see that he doesn’t always have to be so intransigent when it comes to his licenses. It may have taken the blonde a while to come around to his proposal, but seems to have accepted that for Gotham to be at peace, the law may at times need to be bent. A favour for a favour, he guesses and sighs deeply as the decision seems to be made for him.

He pointedly tries to ignore the fact that Jim still doesn’t seem to have turned up and how exactly that makes him feel.

“Bullock,” He says, rather loudly in order to get the cop to acknowledge him, but still feels like a little bird squawking, trying in vain to call out to its peers as it sinks into the sharp fangs of an awaiting feline. He is well aware that by apprehending him, Oswald is walking into the lion’s den, so to speak, he knows Bullock is unlikely to let him off the way Jim does, but he guesses that, given the circumstances, his job as mayor trumps his personal feelings towards the man right now. He could probably have sent for Butch, just for security measures, but he, Tabitha and Barbara have apparently chosen to avoid the festivities here at Arkham by staying in their cozy little nest at the _Siren’s,_ and do whatever it is they do there in their secret hideout.

Bullock either doesn’t hear him or pretends not to, he isn’t quite sure he can tell from where he is. Frustrated, he calls the captain’s name again, which finally seems to have an effect, given that as soon as he turns around, Oswald can see his face sour and an angry scowl quickly stretch his features. Perhaps if the circumstances weren’t so dire, he might tell him that such an expression does nothing if not make him look even less worthy of his respect. But Jim’s partner is not the only one who would rather be anywhere else: if, for once only, things could quieten down in Gotham, Oswald would much rather be at his mansion, savouring an expensive glass of delectable champagne by the fire, the faint air of classical music playing in the background as he would show Jim in great detail the masterpiece that is his dearly beloved father’s portrait in all of it’s fine details.

Sometimes, he still wishes Jim could have met him, like he had his mother. He can’t even begin to imagine how dinner might have gone down, but Oswald likes to think that it would have been pleasant. Instead, he has talked about him, at times, tried to give him a little insight into his life, into where he comes from, how his father has shaped who he is today. Jim likes to feign disinterest, but always asks him to go on, apologetic at not having much to offer in counterpart: he mentions once having found out that his own father was murdered by the Court of Owls and that his uncle essentially committed suicide right in front of him. Oswald tries to be sympathetic, is all too familiar with the pain of losing someone he cares about, is currently _very_ much aware of the close calls the other man has had in the line of duty and asks Jim to not be so reckless with his job.

Like he could very well be doing right now. Bullock has, at this point, either truly not heard him or is deliberately ignoring him, as he is still currently engrossed in a frantic-looking conversation with two other stationed policemen by their car, the flashing lights of his service vehicle and the barrage of paparazzi camera flashes doing very little to dissimulate the concern etched on his face. Oswald swallows nervously, this can’t be good.

“Mayor Cobblepot, what a non-pleasure,” The elder offers, coldly cordial as always. Oswald would very much like to tell him where exactly he can shove his attitude, but one closer look at the detective is all he really needs to garner that he doesn’t exactly mean it. Bullock is pale as a sheet, has dark circles under his eyes and is probably running on three hours of sleep, twelve cups of coffee and a bottle of cheap alcohol: in other words, the bloke is exhausted, scared out of his mind (and will be the last to admit it) at what exactly they’re up against, and the expectations of the people crowded behind them cannot be easy to bear, he knows the latter feeling all too well.

For Jim, he can maybe cut him a little slack. His priority here remains to get Scarecrow behind bars, drag his stupid cop back out of the freak place and he guesses that his personal feud with the GCPD can probably be set aside just for tonight. Besides, Oswald has learnt that they can make quite the team when they manage to not let their petty differences hinder their cooperation.

“Where is Crane? Have your men got hold of him yet?” He presses, eager to find the troublesome teenager and, in the process, give some good news to the press and send them on their merry way.

“No, we know he’s in there, but nobody’s really eager to go after him-” Harvey is sweating, from walking up and down nervously, exhaustion or plain out worry, he cannot guess which, thinks it’s probably all three and a mountain load of other unresolved issues. The cop keeps pulling his old scratched phone in and out of his pocket, but has to fight with himself to not look at the screen and instead picks at the dog-eared corner of its leather case. If he’s here until tomorrow morning, there probably will not be much left of the thing.

Oswald, for his part, has no time for games. The pressure of the press and the citizens of Gotham, who are undoubtedly watching this fiasco live from the comfort of their homes, leaves him little choice: this kid needs to be caught, and damn the scardy-cats who refuse to do their job, he’ll fire them all if he needs to. “I don’t care, we need the boy, I don’t care how you guys catch him, but you better do so tonight. The citizens of Gotham need to know they can trust in your badge, don’t they? How exactly do you think giving up is going to make you look?”

At the very least, it seems to make them stop and think for a moment, Bullock included, who has the decency to look sheepish at not having even considered this possible outcome. Perhaps he doesn’t need to, and in that regard, Oswald envies him, for he cannot afford to have anything go wrong on him, he has always had to be one step ahead in everything, project into the future, plan every eventuality, constantly come up with alternatives, and even they often had to have their own plan B for him to truly stay ahead.

“So, what is your plan?”

“I…” He trails off, but offers nothing, and for a moment Oswald thinks that he must be joking. This is Harvey Bullock, captain of the GCPD, who has the entire police force at his disposal and whose friend is possibly facing a teenage psychopath armed with a deadly fear-toxin, and he has no plan?

“You mean, you don’t have one?! You just let Jim waltz in there, alone, with a crazy guy who we all know drugs people with his toxin of horror and has beef with you guys for shooting his father, _are you completely insane!”_ He doesn’t even know whether he ought to be scared, angry or outraged at this point. Probably all three of them at once, on Jim’s behalf if anything, but the whole weight of the possible consequences haven’t truly sunken in yet. All he knows is that his detective is in there, by himself, with a maniac on the loose, Oswald doesn’t even want to begin to think of how bad things could turn out. (Knowing him, and knowing his shitty luck, things were likely to turn _very_ sour and _very_ fast).

“I… “ For a second, he thinks Bullock might try and show some remorse, perhaps even change his mind and charge in there after his partner, but his fragile hope is quickly squandered into the dust at the thunderous look the cop gives him.. “You’ve seen the damn brat, Penguin, you more than anyone here knows what he does! Can you blame us here for being scared shitless?!” He doesn’t have enough time to stop the hand that grabs the front of his dress coat, as Bullock all but takes him by the lapels and shakes him like a ragdoll as he continues on a ramble about how he can’t push the GCPD beyond their limits, that he can’t lose his officers. “… This isn’t on me, this is on Jim! If he hadn’t acted like an idiot, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place! I told him, I _told_ him not to go at it alone, that there would be a time when it would be now or never and I would say never. But what does Jim do? He thinks he’s better suited to go in alone! Sure, go after the lunatic, like that won’t _possibly_ go wrong. I can follow him into a lot of his hair brained ideas, but not this! I-I can’t.”

Oswald is satisfied all the same at the tremor of doubtfulness in Bullock’s voice at the end, like he is still trying to convince himself that this is the right course of action. He probably doesn’t really want to leave his friend in there by his lonesome, but torn between one man and the rest of the force, Oswald is loath to admit that he knows how that feels. Still, it does not quell the resentment he can feel progressively building against the police department, and very quickly comes to the conclusion that he ought to take a step away, less he end up punching Bullock in the face out of misplaced anger. He’d said he’d try, for Jim, but it’s getting _really_ hard not to let anything out and give the GCPD a good piece of his mind –or even throw a few punches here and there-, if he is quite honest with himself.

“He did say he would call, if things were to go south.” Harvey supplies after a moment, voice quiet, uncertain, and has the decency to look a little apologetic at having gotten physical with him and at least seems to try and offer him something, whether it be genuine or just an act for the ravenous reporters breathing down their back, Oswald cannot be certain.

He hates how just those few words placate him somewhat: Jim will call, he said he would. As Oswald worriedly glances towards the Asylum, he truly would like to be able to bring himself to believe the detective’s would-be reassuring words, but the tremor doubtfulness that Bullock hadn’t manage to cover up only reinforce his previous suspicion, that something _couldn’t_ be right.

“He did?” He doesn’t even think it through as his hand pulls his old flip phone out of his pocket, a faint trace of hope beating in his chest as he awkwardly tries to open it one handed and waits with baited breath for a notification with the initials _J.G._ to pop up –maybe Jim has since taken care of things, and sent him a text telling him he’d be home a little later than planned. Perhaps he’d have enough time to head home and turn the stove on, dig around in the old cellar and find something for them to eat, perhaps-

It hurts far more than he think it ought to, as Oswald takes in the lack of the two simple letter on his lock screen, the only message demanding his attention being a voicemail from Olga, probably asking him what he would like her to feed Edward the dog. His heart sinks in his chest as his hand clenches around the device, his fingers hovering over Jim’s icon all of two seconds before he gives in and taps it.

They were supposed to have dinner at his place tonight, he’d even sent Gabe out to pick up the profiteroles and chocolate sauce, just like Jim liked. _Likes, _Oswald,_ likes, present tense, because Jim is_ _absolutely_ fine, _I’m just being a crazy paranoiac and getting worked up over something ridiculous and he’s going to hold this over my head for weeks to come after we get out of here. Jim. Is. Fine._

Yes, surely he is blowing this way out of proportion, like he always does. It’s just difficult for Oswald to have much optimism anymore, not after the countless betrayals he has been through and the losses he still has not recovered from –nor does he think he ever truly will be over them. He misses his mother and father still, even Fish at times, their absence a big gaping hole in his chest nothing has yet managed to fill, and if he were to lose Jim too…

Oswald shakes his head: _calm, composed, stoic, you are the _mayor_ and the king of the Underworld, the most powerful man in Gotham right now, start acting like it!_ He tells himself as a third and tortuously long final ring gives place to Jim’s answerphone. Oswald hangs up before the Jim’s pre-recorded voicemail finishes, he knows the two-liner off by heart at this point, doesn’t see the point in wasting anymore time.

“Any luck?” Bullock’s voice reaches him over his shoulder, far more tame than when they first met tonight, and Oswald has to admit that he would probably be far more accommodating to the other guy if he just toned it down around him half of the time, but that is a conversation for another day. He closes his eyes as he snaps the old phone closed, the deafening click not something he can bare to look at as he shoves it back into his coat pocket, takes a second to compose himself and turns what he hopes to be a confident smile to Jim’s partner.

“Unfortunately not, but Jim is pretty sporadic when it comes to picking up his phone.” He tries to add for good measure, unsure if it’s Bullock or himself that he is trying to convince here. Bullock barely acknowledges him though, for he has already turned his worried gaze back to Arkham Asylum while half-listening to whatever officer Parks is telling him, Oswald strains his ear, but cannot make out her murmurs over the incessant noise in his back._ God, he wishes he could tell them all to just _shut up_ for a moment, just so he can _think_._

He purges out their nagging voices, turns a blind eye to the incessantly gesticulating press and calls upon the clever wits of his that have helped him remain on top so far.

_Always one step ahead, Oswald,_ Jim had told him once.

_It’s why I’m alive, _he’d shot back innocently, even had the audacity to wink at the detective, not truly taking into consideration the weight of the words he’d so carelessly thrown around that day. Oswald is rather proud of his ability to outsmart his opponents, from lowlifes like those two boys he’d murdered all those eons ago to the likes of Fish and Don Falcone himself, he has outlived them all, risen to be the King of Gotham. Yet all of what he has acquired tastes like ash in his mouth and seems to be rather insignificant when compared to the sick feeling in his chest at the thought of Jim not making it out of there. Something bad has happened, of that he is sure: Jim has a knack of getting himself into bad situations, but he always comes out on top, alive, maybe this time-

_Stop it,_ he berates himself yet again. _You cannot afford to think that way_, Jim is _fine_: if he can survive being beaten unconscious by Galavan, Tetch trying to trick him into killing himself and Lee literally burying him alive, Oswald is pretty certain he can outwit a teenager. Besides, Jim had promised him dinner, and he would make absolutely sure to hold him to his word. One did not simply back out of a promise to him because of the psycho of the week had other plans, they would never get anywhere in… whatever this thing they were tentatively trying were they to let every person wanting to upheaval the city of Gotham for their own entertainment or delusions of grandeur have their way.

Actually, Oswald doesn’t care. Yes, that’s it, he’s completely fine and he doesn’t care about some imbecile who couldn’t wait for backup. This is on _Jim,_ and while he is in there probably now reflecting on how much of a fuck up situation he has landed himself in by going solo, Oswald will stay right here, where he is needed and coordinate the operations (and stay three steps ahead, for good measure), alongside the GCPD.

His resolve lasts all of two minutes, as Oswald can feel his hand inch for his phone again and gives in to relieve the anxiety he can feel bubbling in his chest (he does _not_ need more of that right now, anything to relieve it is a most welcomed distraction). He chokes out a muffled sound he cannot entirely describe –somewhere between a laugh and a sob- because whatever higher beings mays exist out there are certainly getting a laugh at his expense right now.

The phone is shaking in his trembling hand, the screen too bright and burning his eyes, but Oswald doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because he barely registers the pain, it is after all pretty insignificant when he compares it to that of the still blank screen. Jim’s last message goes back to this morning, and it is anything but a significantly loaded exchange –in fact, it is mundane, nothing more ordinary, a simple _“Thank you, looking forward to it”,_ in response to his invitation for dinner. They haven’t had time to talk since, what with Oswald trying to tamper Barbara’s ambitions for the Gotham underworld and Jim running after Crane, he’d merely expected for things to calm down tonight, grant them a slight reprieve –just the two of them, maybe Edward at their feet, and a nice crackling fire in the background- and it’s looking more and more likely that whatever plans they may have previously made, Oswald can kiss them goodbye. If Jim hasn’t answered him at this point, he has undoubtedly messed up.

He doesn’t even realize that he is headed to the GCPD’s taped off area until Parks has put herself between him and the Asylum, standing as tall as she can and giving him her most intimidating look, arms folded over her chest. Under any other circumstances, Oswald would find it funny, perhaps even charming that the petite officer thinks she can stop him with a pout and a stink eye, but not today. He tells her as much as he attempts to shove past her, trying to act nonchalantly at first but is rather quickly forced to drop the act when he realizes he’s not going to make it in there without a struggle.

It thankfully doesn’t last long, Oswald having the advantage of height, stealth and determination and he doesn’t ask twice before making a beeline for the Asylum’s entrance, or as fast as his damaged leg can carry him at any rate. He thinks he might make out one of Harvey Bullock’s outraged rants in the background, littered with a choice of colourful words that even Oswald would not dare use on his worst days, but remains deaf to his threats as he climbs the few steps separating him from the large entrance door. It’s open, still, and his hand reaches out to the handle, about to push through when he definitely hears the distant sound of Bullock’s voice –probably trying to gather a team to come and stop him, he garners, but Oswald has been keeping an eye all night on these officers, he would have to be blind to not see the look of pure unaltered fear in their eyes- and he is thus confident in assessing that nobody is going to be coming after him for a while yet. Not even Jim’s partner would dare come in here by himself. If he is honest, neither would Oswald, under normal circumstances. He remembers vowing to himself not all that long ago to fight tooth and nail should the prospects of being dragged off back to the asylum ever arise again, and it comes as little surprise that he has some not so pleasant memories from his little stay here, when Jim left him behind, refused to hear him out when Oswald had begged him to save him. Jim has since confessed regretting doing so to him in what he had judged to be a sincere apology, and while Oswald knows he tends to hold grudges towards those who have wronged him, he is rather reluctant to do so this time.

He swallows audibly, terrified as he widens the entrance just enough for his lithe frame to slip through unnoticed. His heart does an involuntary leap in his chest as he can already hear the anguished voices of his former cellmates reverberating along each and every corridor, already ensnaring him in a prison with no bars. The long and tortuous echo continues, on repeat, not a single benevolent soul caring enough to tend to it’s need, and coupled with the banging on the wall and the frying lightbulbs, Oswald can feel himself coming dangerously close to a sensory overload.

_Calm down, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…_

It isn’t much, but it is one of the rare techniques he has been privy to in the past. It’s not great, it works better when there is somebody there to ground him throughout the process, but it does the job. With a shaking hand, he pulls out the small knife he keeps in his left pocket in case of emergencies and takes a very uncertain step forward into the heart of the hellhole. Unlike Ed, whose natural ingenuity and riddle-addled brain carefully takes note of the finer details of his surroundings, Oswald must confess that he did not exactly linger on the smaller complexities of the institution last time he was here, and is unsure as to where he ought to start looking. Arkham Asylum is a maze, deliberately so in order to keep the people sent to this madhouse, well, mad. Killers, rapists and the scum of proper society, Gotham and it’s citizens have no want for these freaks to be reintroduced to their every-day lives and soil the carefully constructed system upon which the city is built. The only cure offered in this madhouse was more madness: Oswald remembers, remembers all of it in such sharp detail that he needs a minute to compose himself and set aside his trauma for the time being. He is no longer a prisoner, he is the Mayor, with a capital M, and a free man who is just here to pick up something, is all, and Arkham could think again if it was expecting to trap him here a second time.

It remains true that Oswald no more wants to be here than he had five minutes ago, but for Jim, he pushes through.

_But screw him all the same,_ Oswald thinks bitterly, as he narrowly avoids the sparks of an old broken lightbulb landing in his face, nearly giving him a heart attack. He has but taken a few steps into this prison and already it is trying to take its revenge on him. _Scew Jim for making care enough to come back in here._

Jim is also an idiot, a character trait of his that Oswald is frustratingly too familiar with for comfort, Jim is, in fact, a _colossal_ idiot most of the time. But, he amends selfishly as he darts a look to the open and empty-looking reception, Jim is _his_ idiot.

And if there is one thing Oswald is certain of tonight, it is that he is bringing his idiot home.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m quite late to the fandom unfortunately, I’ve only just finished Gotham and Gobblepot pretty much owns my heart. I also stumbled upon the GobblepotAllianceWeek a while back, and while this is months late, it is a humble attempt to fill (fingers crossed)  
\- 3. One holding the other up  
\- 7. One teaching the other  
\- 9. One surprising the other  
(It's all likely to be more metaphorical than physical though, I hope that's ok?)


End file.
